


Shoveling smoke with a pitchfork in the wind

by chanderson



Series: Darkness and light in so much detail [2]
Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Angst, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Suicide, John's Lost Weekend, M/M, Past Infidelity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-26
Updated: 2018-09-26
Packaged: 2019-07-17 18:21:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16101194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chanderson/pseuds/chanderson
Summary: John confesses the truth to Ringo, Los Angeles 1974.





	Shoveling smoke with a pitchfork in the wind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a follow up to the fic "See the butterfly in the blood." Not too long or anything. I'm thinking of adding more chapters from different character's POVs.
> 
> I never write George or Ringo POV, so I was interested to do so here!
> 
> Title is based on John/Harry's song Old Dirt Road off the album Walls And Bridges
> 
> Enjoy :-)

“Your glass is empty!” 

Ringo startles when Harry Nilsson leans in to shout over the music — some bluesy number full of full-bodied saxophones — and plucks the martini glass from his hand. “Let me get you a fresh one.” Harry’s oversized aviator sunglasses have slipped down his nose, and his black beret is lopsided on his head, exposing a shock of his tousled, ginger hair. He grins and waves down a passing waitress. “Get my friend here another drink, baby,” he slurs. A look of discomfort flickers across the waitresses face before she smooths down her deliciously short skirt and nods. 

“Of course. What would you like?” Ringo waves his hand dismissively and smiles. 

“Surprise me, luv.” 

He watches her go, walking purposefully toward the bar in her black stilettos. 

“You want some of that, Rich?” Harry asks, face curled into an unattractive leer. Ringo chuckles and shifts his weight in the upholstered booth. 

“Not really my type.”

“You like them a bit more giggly, don’t you?” Harry smirks and lights up a cigarette, and Ringo nods politely, craning his neck to scan the busy club. A few tables over, men in expensive suits with Italian grenadine ties are not-so-subtly snorting coke off the table, a pair of one hundred dollar bills rolled tight resting in their noses. Harry follows his gaze and hums appreciatively. “Wish we had some. I used the last of mine this morning.” 

“We can get some more after we leave here,” Ringo says absently, squinting his eyes to look through the crowd. “Have you seen John?” 

“I think he went to sample the talent, if you know what I mean.” Harry nods in the direction of the glitzy stage, where a woman is swaying her hips and sliding a thong down her thigh, her glittery heels sparkling like a pair of diamonds. 

“Of course he did,” Ringo says dryly. He glances over at May sitting across the booth, arms crossed self consciously over her chest. 

“One Manhattan, made specially for you.” The waitress from before walks up and places the slender martini glass in front of him. The honey-colored liquor catches the light, and Ringo nods appreciatively. 

“Ta.” The Liverpudlian slip rolls right off his tongue, and he smiles awkwardly before fishing out the cherry from the bottom of his glass. 

“Oh, there’s John.” Harry nudges Ringo’s shoulder and points a shaky finger in the direction of the bar. John’s leaning with an elbow on the bar top, chin resting in his hand, one hip cocked to the side. His hair’s hanging limply across his forehead, damp with sweat. 

“I’ll go get ‘im.” Ringo grabs his glass by the stem, holding it between between his fingers like a woman might hold a cigarette, wrist daintily turned up. 

John doesn’t see Ringo until he sidles up next to him and playfully pulls his yellow-tinged glasses down his nose. 

“Hey, watch it, son!” he says with mock indignation. Ringo rolls his eyes good naturedly.

“Where’d you run off to, Johnny? May’s been looking awfully lonely.” He gives John a pointed look over the lip of his glass, and John glowers, taking a gulp of his whiskey neat. 

“We aren’t married, Rich.” 

“I know, but she’s just a girl, John, and you know she’s really taken with you.”

“She’s a good girl,” he agrees thoughtfully. “Doesn’t mean I’m going to give up the finer things in life, if you know what I mean.” John’s eyes follow a girl as she sashays by, tits bouncing. 

“You’re a dog, John.”

“Sure am, son,” he says without missing a beat.

They sip their drinks in companionable silence, and Ringo idly watches the girls on the stage shaking their breasts, the tousles on their nipples spinning like windmills. John snorts and throws back the rest of his drink, wincing as he swallows hard. “You know what I _really_ want?” he asks apropos of nothing, the words slurring together. 

“Drugs?” 

John snorts and shakes his head. 

“No, but good guess.” He turns to face Ringo, swaying slightly, and sighs. “Drugs would definitely be easier.” He drops his gaze, absently pushing his empty glass across the bar with his finger. “No, Rich, what I _really_ want is Paul.” 

Ringo’s eyes widen in surprise, and he chuckles, momentarily speechless. They don’t talk about Paul anymore, none of them. 

“I, uh, yeah,” he stutters dumbly, unsure of what else to say. “I miss him too.”

“Yeah,” John says, drawing out the word. “God he was so fuckin’ beautiful. Better than any bird I’ve ever had.” 

Ringo flushes and nervously shifts his weight. 

“I think you’ve had enough for tonight, John. How about we head back to the house.” 

“Don’t act so surprised, Ritchie.” John starts fiddling with his pack of Gitanes, repeatedly opening and closing the top. Ringo compulsively reaches out and folds his hand over John’s, halting his movements. 

“You’ll tear the box,” he says in explanation before pulling his hand back, embarrassed. John shrugs and slides a ciggie out. 

“Does it make you uncomfortable?” he asks on an exhale. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, John,” Ringo says evenly, playing dumb. He doesn’t want to hear John say it — that’ll make it real. 

“Christ, Rich, of course you do. You had to know that Paul and I were fuck—”

“John, please,” Ringo snaps, cutting him off. “I don’t want to talk about Paul.” Ringo shakily leans forward and beckons the bartender over. “Shot of rum please.” John snorts out a short, ugly laugh and crushes his ciggie in the crystal ashtray. 

“No one ever fucking does.”

The bartender pours out the shot with an expert flick of his wrist and nudges the glass forward. 

“On your tab?” he asks, and Ringo nods before throwing the shot back. 

“Whatever you and Paul… did… I don’t want to know about it.”

“Why not?” John crosses his arms. “It doesn’t embarrass me. It shouldn’t embarrass you either. We weren’t queer or anything, you know.” 

“Please.” Ringo grabs John’s wrist and squeezes. “Just stop, John. You’re drunk.” John shrugs and orders another drink. 

“Did you know something was wrong with him? You know, before he fuckin’ offed himself.” Ringo fumbles around for his cigarettes and closes his eyes against the way the room is starting to spin. 

“I don’t like to think about that time. It’s still too painful.” 

“Did you know or not?” John leans in close enough for Ringo to smell his breath, sour with whiskey and cigarettes. “I want to know.”

“I figured something was wrong, yes,” Ringo finally says wearily, reluctantly opening his eyes. “I found him one day—” He stops to clear his throat. “I found him in the bathroom at the studio one day. It was early, before you and Geo were in. I guess he’d just done a take of Oh! Darling — it was around that time — but I didn’t realize he was there yet. I went to take a piss, and he was in there sitting in one of the stalls crying. I asked him what was wrong and all that, but he just sorta went all barmy on me, started hyperventilating and shaking. I thought he was gonna pass out and almost went to get George H., but he begged me not to and then asked me to leave him alone.” Ringo winces at the memory, feeling guilt clawing at his chest. “I should’ve stayed with him. I stood outside the door listening for a bit and heard him getting sick. I don’t know why I didn’t go back in.” 

“It was an anxiety attack. He had those a lot at the end.” 

“I should’ve stayed,” Ringo says again, shuddering. “He needed me.” 

“He cut himself too, you know. All the time. I caught him doing it a few times.” John says it so casually, like an afterthought, and Ringo feels a jolt of nausea that he struggles to swallow down, imaging Paul’s wrist dripping with blood.

“I’m sorry you had to see that.” 

John shrugs and catches the bartender’s attention. 

“Gonna close my tab.”

“You headed out?” Ringo twists the ring on his pinky finger, glancing back at Harry. He’s got a girl in his lap and a dried line of blood under his nose, so he found some coke after all. John straightens his jacket and pats his pockets, checking for his cigarettes. 

“Yeah. Close out your tab and come with us. I’ve got a dealer coming by.” 

“Sure, alright.” 

Ringo pays the tab, wincing at the price, his dwindling coffers forever present in the back of his mind like a sore he can’t stop picking at.

In the car, John pulls May into his lap and starts slobbering all over her neck, one hand carelessly kneading her breast like a ball of dough. May titters nervously, face flushing and eyes darting over to Ringo. 

“John, sweetheart,” she whispers, putting a hand on his chest. “Not now.” 

“Don’t tell me what to do,” he slurs. “You’ve been a bitch all night.” 

“John,” Ringo snaps. “Stop it.” The lights of the city flash across May’s face in time for Ringo to see a tear run down her cheek. 

“Fuck off, Rich,” John says even as he pushes May away and slumps back in the seat. He clumsily rolls down the window and sucks in a deep breath. The wind rushes in, rustling his hair and shirt. 

When they get back to the house, May disappears to the bedroom, and Ringo sympathetically pats John on the back as they amble outside, collapsing into a pair of deck chairs. The pool lights are on, and the water’s glowing a brilliant, cerulean blue. 

“You should be nicer to her.” 

“Who?” 

Ringo rolls his eyes and lights a cigarette, flicking his lighter a few times before it sparks. 

“May, John,” Ringo says patiently. “Your girlfriend.” John scowls and runs a hand through his hair, displacing the curls. 

“The dealer should be here soon,” he says, ignoring Ringo’s comment. 

“Make sure we save some for Harry.”

John hums in response and folds his arms behind his head, looking up to stare at the sky. There aren’t any stars out — too much air pollution. It makes Ringo feel a little lonely, like they’re all alone in the galaxy. 

“Do you ever talk to Linda?” John asks suddenly, rolling his head over to stare at Ringo. 

“Um, no, not really,” he says, frowning. “I think George calls her up sometimes. Pretty sure he went to visit her not too long ago.” 

“I haven’t seen her in years.” John sighs. 

“I’ve only seen her a few times since the funeral.” 

“I went down to visit her a couple months after it.” He pauses. “We fucked,” he confesses, eyes downcast like a guilty little boy. Ringo straightens in surprise, something unpleasant curling in his stomach.

“You _what?”_ he sputters, turning to stare at John. 

“We fucked.” John smiles sadly, suddenly sounding heartbreakingly sober. “Paul’d hate me for it.” He makes a hard sound in his throat. “He’d never forgive me.” Ringo instinctively reaches for John, grabbing his forearm and squeezing.

“I forgave George, didn’t I?” he asks softly, and John stiffens under his hand. 

“I guess you did, yeah.” He pulls his arm away. “I get why Paul liked her so much. She’s… simple. Down to earth. I used to fantasize about running off and marrying her. She was the only one who understood, you know? After Paul. Of course, we would’ve never really worked together. Too different. It was good, though — the sex, that is.” He makes a wet, sniffling sound and laughs. “We did it in Paul’s meadow, on the ground like a couple of animals.” 

“You shouldn’t feel guilty. Paul wouldn’t want you to.” 

“Mm, I don’t know about that,” John says cryptically. “I tried finding out if I could talk to him, got Yoko to ask all her special psychic friends, but it’s all a bunch of gypsy bullshit. They’d come to the Dakota and hold fucking seances, telling me he was in the room and shit, but I never felt him or whatever. It was all a bunch of bollocks.” 

“I’m sorry,” Ringo says for lack of anything better to say. John shrugs. 

“Not your fault, Rich.” 

“That dealer still coming?” he asks, desperate to switch the subject. John brightens up and nods.

“Should be here soon. Want some pot while we wait?” 

Ringo smiles and nods, relaxing when he sees the familiar, mischievous spark returning to John’s eyes. 

They get high and don’t talk about Paul anymore. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope everyone enjoyed!! I'm thinking I may do May's POV next, but we'll see!
> 
> Comments are always appreciated :-)


End file.
